Rising (Vincent and Eve Book 1)

by Jessica Ruben

  “Hey, sweetheart. Can I buy you a drink?” I barely notice anything other than he’s tall with blond hair when I reply.

  “No, thank you.” I keep my back straight and turn my head away from him, not wanting to give him any ideas.

  “Come on, baby. Let me buy you something.” He tries to get closer and I immediately feel my body tighten with anxiety. I want to move backward, but the bar is so full of people, the only way I can escape him is to leave the bar entirely—and if I exit this area, what if I don’t find Vincent again? It occurs to me Vincent may have left me here. What if his plan was to ditch me and he doesn’t come back at all? I mean, sure we’ve been having a great time. But he doesn’t owe me anything. Janelle has told me about countless guys who she thought were crazy about her, but ultimately left her high and dry. I’m sweating again, except this time, it isn’t from chemistry or the heat of the room. I check my watch, realizing it’s getting close to two and I’m all alone. I didn’t even consider how I’m going to get back into my apartment. I need to call Janelle, but my hands are shaking too badly.

  After taking a good look at me, the man’s flirtation turns into concern. “Hey, sweetie, are you all right? I wasn’t tryin’ to upset you. Look, let me get you some water. Calm down, okay? I had a girlfriend once who had bad anxiety.” He turns to flag down the bartender. He orders me a cup of tap and I swallow it down.

  “Feeling better?” I blink a few times, wanting to reply. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll burst into tears. I never should have come here with a complete stranger. I never should have drunk any alcohol. I’m clearly inept at judging situations. I’m obviously incompetent, just like my mom always says.

  “Take a few deep breaths,” he instructs calmly. I’m holding onto the edge of the bar, my knuckles turning white. “Do you have a friend here? Maybe we should get some fresh air.” I nod, but still can’t manage speech. I turn around to leave when Vincent steps in front of me.

  I must look like I’m having some sort of panic attack, because his wide smile turns down the second he sees the state I’m in. “You okay, baby? What the fuck happened here?” My bar neighbor turns to him to say something but freezes when he sees the look on Vincent’s face.

  “Did this guy mess with you?” Vincent’s aggression should be making everything worse. Instead, I feel the anxiety drain from the soles of my feet. I grab his shirt, turning him toward me before he gets in this guy’s face.

  “No, Vincent, I—” My body trembles as relief courses through me. Vincent is back. Half of me wants to jump into his arms and thank him for not disappearing. But the other half wants to smack him across the face for walking away in the first place.

  He leans into me, putting a hand on my arm to calm me down. “Let me take you home, okay? I shouldn’t have left you alone—”

  “I’m not a regular in places like these…” I’m moving my head from side to side, trying not to sound desperate. But the truth is I’m scared as hell. This is too much too soon.

  He nods his head and grips my hand tightly, letting me know without words that it’s okay. We walk out of the club together and back onto the street corner. Even though it’s late, the block is full of people. He continues to hold my hand as he lifts his free arm to hail a taxi; one immediately pulls up to the corner.

  Vincent opens the door for me and I climb inside first, moving to the far window. He follows me into the back seat, sitting flush against me. I feel his thigh pressing against mine; I’m not sure what I should do. Should I move my leg? Stay where I am? Does he notice what he’s doing, or am I just overthinking it? Maybe this is how he normally sits, with his huge, muscular thigh touching the person next to him? I look up at him and he turns his face to mine. It dawns on me this man is used to getting everything he wants, whenever he wants it. I’m nervous, but holy shit do I want to please him. The realization is instantly sobering. I can’t look away from his dark, gorgeous eyes.

  The driver bangs his steering wheel, his voice instantly breaking our moment. “Where you headed?” he asks in a heavy Middle Eastern accent.

  We both turn toward him. “I’m on Avenue D and Fifth,” I reply. My voice doesn’t falter, but I’m nervous, hoping Vincent doesn’t recognize the address.

  Sure enough, though, his eyes widen in disbelief. “You’re in the Blue Houses?” The tone of his voice is unmistakable; he’s surprised and seems to pity me.

  “Yeah.” I look back at him, shrugging my shoulders. I want to tell him sure, it’s a pretty horrible place to live, but it’s home for now. As I turn away from him to stare out the window, he takes my hand and gently rubs his callused thumb back and forth over my knuckles. It’s both soothing and arousing at once. I swallow hard, trying to steady my heart rate. I cross my legs and let out a sigh, keeping my eyes focused on the city streets.

  A few minutes later, the cab stops short in front of my building. I let myself out of the back seat and look up, wondering what it looks like to an outsider. Three tall gray buildings are clustered together and fenced-in balconies frame the facade. The result is a prison-like structure. Pockets of people stand around smoking. On a night like this one, with clear skies, people don’t like to sit in their small apartments. I see a couple of guys on the stoop, observing everyone coming and going from the entrance. Luckily, they aren’t wearing any colors; I know they may be thugs, but they aren’t gang affiliated.

  Vincent swipes his credit card to pay the taxi driver and steps out, insisting on walking me to the building’s front door. I want to protest to prove that I’m independent, but my innate sense of self-preservation tells me not to let him go. Even though there are people around, it’s late and dark—and being alone, even if I’m armed, isn’t the brightest idea. He slightly raises his chin, looking straight-up lethal. The intelligent man from the restaurant is gone, and in his place is the Bull from the ring.

  Taking my hand, Vincent walks us inside the building with purpose, as if he’s the one who lives here. He makes it clear that he’s taking me all the way up to my apartment’s front door; he’s a man on a mission, and I’m not planning on stopping him.

  He opens the door for me and we walk into the dingy gray lobby. The elevator has a sign on the door that says: OUT OF ORDER. I shut my eyes, cursing my luck. Looks like we’ll have to walk up the steps—just another sign pointing to my background, unworthy of a man like him. I lead him to the stairwell. Like a bad horror film, the lights flicker when the door slams shut. The light settles on a dim glow. He stops at the base of the steps, squeezing my hand and cursing. “This is dangerous. Tell me the lights normally work.”

  “Uh, maybe I should tell you two stories. One real and one made up. You tell me which is which.” I internally slap myself five for giving back what he gave me just a few hours earlier.

  He chuckles. “Okay.” We begin the trek up the steps. Luckily, he can’t see my face right now, because my body short-circuits every time his chest or hand brushes my back. It feels like I’m being stalked up the stairs; he’s just so close, but at the same time, not nearly close enough.

  I try to sound upbeat. “There’s a fantastic super who fixes everything anytime tenants call. I’m sure all the bulbs will be replaced by morning.” He lets out a noncommittal grunt.

  “Ready for the second story?” Our pace seems to be slowing down as his hand lightly grazes my lower back. He continues to touch me, and I get the feeling it isn’t by accident.

  “Go on.” His voice is rough, and I blink a few times to steady myself.

  “I’m lucky the light is even flickering. Sometimes it gets so dark, I may as well be walking through a black tube.”

  I stop when we get to the fourth floor, turning around at the top step to tell him this is it. Before I can continue our little game to ask him which story is the truth, he puts his hands on my waist, waiting for me to look up at him.

  I may be standing on a step above him, but he still towers over me. I watch as he licks his full lips, and my core begi
ns to pulse from the visual. I’m not sure what the hell is happening to me, but my mind can’t focus on anything other than Vincent. The darkness is impairing my vision, resulting in a heightening of all of my other senses. I put my hands around his neck and feel the warm sinewy muscle under my fingers. With both his hands, he pushes my hair behind my ears and angles my head up to face him. He’s asking me with his touch if I want this. I let out a loud sigh and lean toward him as every cell in my body screams YES.

  When he presses his lips to mine, I freeze. But he doesn’t let it deter him. Instead, he continues kissing me with a surprising gentleness, moving his mouth against mine and finally sliding his tongue alongside the seam of my mouth, begging entrance.

  I open my mouth, letting him inside. His taste combined with the softness of his tongue has my legs weakening. He wraps a strong arm around my waist and holds me up, steadying me. Within seconds, his soft kisses become demanding. I’m trying to keep up with his pace, but it feels so good, all I can do is take it. He lifts me up and I instinctually wrap my legs around his waist. As if I weigh nothing at all, he walks us up to the landing and pushes me against the concrete wall. My phone drops to the ground, but I barely hear it or notice. He starts to rub against me rhythmically, pressing his hardness against my jeans in slow and deep strokes. I let out a moan as he hits a spot that’s starting an electrical current in my veins. Sweat beads on the back of my neck and between my breasts. My body is on overload; heat traveling from where he’s pushing against me out into all of my limbs. I’m shaking as my hands clutch his strong shoulders. He moves his lips from my mouth to my neck and I lean my head back against the wall, offering myself to him. God, it feels so good. Too good. Moments later, his lips suck a trail up to my ear. I’m burning up.

  His lips move to my ear. “Fucking gorgeous, baby. Watching you dance, I had to talk myself down from taking you right there in the middle of the club.” Replying is not possible; the only sounds coming from my lips are moans.

  My body is climbing higher and higher toward something. I feel him unbuttoning my jeans and I’m letting him. I’d do anything to soothe this ache. And right when I think I’m about to incinerate, his hand reaches down and presses into a spot that literally short circuits my brain. My head slams against the wall behind me and I’m completely lost, a scream tearing from my throat. I have zero control as my body melts on and on. He holds onto me, wrapping his body around me tightly as I come down from the high.

  “What the hell was that?” I pant. I can barely see him as the lights flicker on and off, but the questioning look he gives me is clear.

  “Was that your first orgasm, Eve?” All I can do is nod my head. He sighs, dropping his head into the crook of my neck. “God, baby. I can’t lie to you. I like that. I like that a lot. You’re so innocent and stunning. Fuck.” My eyes close again when I feel his lips back on mine, his tongue slowly dragging in and out of my mouth.

  I let out a hum and give myself over to him; I’m so pliable right now; he could do anything he wanted, and I would say yes. When he pulls back, I open my eyes and touch my hands to my face, noticing how hot it is to the touch. He slowly lowers my feet to the ground and all I want to do is beg him to keep me up here, close to his body. I button my jeans as he bends down, picking up my phone and handing it to me.

  We walk together to my apartment door. I turn toward him and look up into his intense eyes, wanting to thank him. But when I hear a couple fighting, I’m immediately brought back to my reality. I drop my head, irrationally wishing he either didn’t hear or didn’t notice. I’m one-hundred percent sure this isn’t the type of place Vincent is used to.

  Noticing my discomfort, he slowly lifts my head back up. “Hey, Eve. Look at me.” My eyes meet his again. “Give me your phone and let me give you my number.” He waits patiently for me to pull out my phone.

  I reach into my purse and hand it to him, breathing deeply. All of a sudden, things have gotten quiet between us.

  He opens my contacts and types his information. I’m pressing my lips together, waiting for him to ask me for my number in return. But when he hands me back my phone, I can’t manage any words. Leaning against the doorway, he looks down at me and pushes some errant hair out of my face. “You’re different from other girls I know.” Licking his lips, he bends down, pressing a chaste kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you around, okay? Promise you’ll call me if you ever need anything.” He turns around to leave, and I’m stuck speechless and quaking.

  I float into my apartment, my brain short-circuited and high, but sublimely happy. I go into the bathroom to wash up, wishing I could savor this feeling for eternity. Before removing my makeup, I look in the mirror. Staring at myself, I try to see what he could possibly see in me.

  My eyes shine brown and my hair looks glossy and full. My lips are puffy and pink from all the kissing. I touch my lips and sigh. When I’m all clean, I get into bed, replaying my night over and over. If I sleep, will it all just disappear? I try to keep myself awake to prolong the feeling and the memories, but with enough time, my body gives into exhaustion and I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 7

  Saturday morning comes too quickly. By the time I wake up, Janelle has already left for work. I wash up as fast as I can, not wanting to be late for my meeting with Ms. Levine at her apartment. I take the Six Train Uptown to Eighty-Sixth Street and walk out of the station, immediately coming face to face with Ms. Levine’s tall glass building—a gorgeous brand-new condominium called the Lucinda.

  I have a definite bounce in my step today. I’m not sure I’ll ever see Vincent again, but just the potential is enough to lift up my spirits. I can barely believe a man like him exists in this world. I also can’t believe all of the incredible things he made me feel. He’s here in this city, my heart whispers. Maybe my luck is finally changing? I feel the hope move around in my chest.I stop at the desk in Ms. Levine’s fancy lobby, letting the concierge know who I’m here to see. I turn my head to the front door as a bellboy pushes a large cart filled with suitcases. “The car should be out front,” the woman tells him with a stony face.

  Ms. Levine used to make some serious bank as a high-powered attorney in the city but left her white-glove life to help the city’s neediest kids change their lives. Unfortunately for her, aid is almost impossible to give in a school system that’s utterly broken and with kids who refuse to change. But I guess, there’s me. And there’s no denying the fact that she’s changing the hell out of my life.

  I remember when she walked into my ninth-grade English class. We all knew she was a brand-new teacher, and most of the students were ready to give her their version of a warm welcome. She walked into the classroom in a designer-looking suit and high heels that screamed, “I’m ready to take on the world!” Before she could put her briefcase on the chair by her desk, someone launched a calculator at her head. Laughter ensued, but it was just the beginning.

  By her fourth day, kids were throwing textbooks from the fifth-story classroom window. It’s safe to say her idealism took a hit pretty early on in her teaching career.

  Even though the classroom drama persisted, she still assigned The Great Gatsby as the first required reading, followed by an essay on the book’s portrayal of the upper versus lower classes of society. Because I happen to love that book and read it with my old friend Javi in eighth grade, I wrote the paper. I handed it to her quietly after class, writing: PLEASE DON’T TELL ANYONE I WROTE THIS at the top. The last thing I needed was to draw negative attention to myself.

  Javi Dante was a friend of mine. He was smart. We’d pass books between ourselves—hiding the books as if we had cash inside our backpacks—reading for pleasure and for the possibility of a better life one day. Our hunger to get the hell out of the Blue Houses was insatiable. We would stick Post-Its inside the pages of borrowed classics, scribbling notes to each other. We read everything we could get our hands on. Malcolm X. Paulo Coehelo. Zora Neal Hurston.

  The morning of his death, I
passed him The Invisible Man—a book that shook me to the core but was ultimately left undiscussed. The cops found the book in his bag, wondering who wrote on all the green Post-Its. No one ever found out it was me. Janelle knew everything, though. She told me to shut up and stay low for a while. People can smell the stench of potential, and somehow, it never ended well for most of them.

  The community went crazy for a few weeks, wondering who killed this innocent boy.

  “Another youth wasted!”

  “He had the highest grades for math. He could have been a doctor!”

  “His mom applied him to one of the best prep schools in the country; they already accepted him for high school!”

  “He could have been something. Done something for this comm-u-nity!”

  “We need better schools. Someone, tell the mayor!”

  It all fell on deaf ears. Debts are owed, and sometimes lives are used as payment. Here, our bodies are nothing but currency. I later found out his brother cheated the Snakes out of some drug money. To show their power, his brother had to pay in blood. Javi was the blood.

  A few days after I handed in the paper, Ms. Levine pulled me aside and insisted my intelligence was being neglected; she wasn’t going to stand for it any longer. According to her, I was never able to translate my intellect into academic potential. She intended on being the one to change that.

  Since then, Ms. Levine has been on a mission to get me out of the ghetto and into an Ivy League college—insisting with her help, I could change the path of my life.

  In the past three years, our relationship has grown from teacher and student to mentor and mentee. She’s had my sister Janelle and me over to her beautiful apartment for countless dinners and gives us all sorts of advice, which goes way beyond the academic. When Janelle had a pregnancy scare last year, Ms. Levine’s apartment was where she took her First Response test, which was thankfully negative. And when my mom came home on a drug-induced rampage and cut up all of my clothes with meat scissors, Ms. Levine is the one who brought me to Target on 117th street and replaced all of my old thrift-shop clothes.